


Chameleon [An Arcana AU!]

by Mother_of_Dragons



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Arcana au, F/F, F/M, Moira is Julian, Reader is gender neutral, Work In Progress, reader is the apprentice, slight cannon divergence?, the summary leaves much to be desired... sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-01-03 06:17:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21174803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_of_Dragons/pseuds/Mother_of_Dragons
Summary: Just one day to yourself, uninterrupted by echoes from beyond the veil, the eerie feeling of being watched as you turn a corner, or having to decode cryptic documents in the library until your eyes turn bleary - would that be too much to ask?Well, that distinct mop of fiery hair headed your way says otherwise.





	1. The marketplace

**Author's Note:**

> [[x]](https://mrj-artdump.tumblr.com/post/181809794778/moira-needs-a-plague-doctor-skin-she-is-a-plague)

She's stealthier (and bolder) than you'd have given her credit for, but all the same too distinct in her appearance for you not to take notice of her as she slinks through the marketplace, at least a good head above most of the crowd in height.

You notice, with mild surprise and maybe a little disappointment, that she'd cut her hair short since you'd last encountered her; the sleek, efficiently tied bun which had come almost to shoulder length when undone now framed her face at about half its prior length, in a harried (although you don't doubt that each 'effortless' ruffle had been methodically orchestrated) yet coiffed style - traditionally a man's haircut. 

In fact, the blouse that she usually wore unbuttoned when at leisure and would have looked utterly ridiculous on anyone else but her is hidden behind a fully fastened jacket and matching flowing coat, almost cape-like in the way it trails behind her.

But she'd have to try harder than that to get past _ you_. 

Absently, you note that her gloves and gleaming thigh high boots have remained the same and the idiom '_a leopard never changes its spots_' comes to mind as you contemplate making your move; confronting her in broad daylight would simply be unwise, considering the favourable attitude of most of the locals toward her, so you disguise yourself with the simple shawl you had brought along in case of a turn in the weather and follow leisurely behind her, slowing your pace incrementally as she draws further and further from the town centre and the crowd begins to thin, the chatter and yelling of the market giving way to gentle birdsong and sounds distinct to lush forestry: the croak of a toad, the whirring of wings and the scutter of unknown things through the undergrowth. 

Eventually, she leads you to what seems to be no more than a little, shabby hut on the outskirts of town - it's facade wrapped in tendrils of verdant, sprawling ivy and surrounded on all sides by what seems at first to be weeds, but most likely has useful medicinal properties of some sort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... this was originally supposed to be a one-shot but then I split it into 2 chapters & then I  
got a - vague - idea for a third. So, I have no idea where this is going in terms of length,  
but I can confirm that there will be at least an additional chapter.
> 
> Also, I'm not 100% sold on the title, so don't be surprised if it changes before the next chapter is up;  
suggestions are also welcome in the comments.


	2. The cottage

You find her here the next day. Humming and knelt over a plant which the name of alludes you, an almost full wicker flower basket at her side. 

She's in her traditional garb today, physicians clothes paired with her trademark purple kirtle and matching apron, wrapped tight around her waist. 

"_There's a man in your bed_" you say, with perhaps a touch of scorn, as you come to a stop mere feet from her. But it's true, you had spied him through one of the warped window panes, its rippled glass a call back to the styles of old - almost like a mirror, were it not for the distorted image. 

The humming comes to an abrupt halt and she straightens up in the blink of an eye, clearly caught unawares.

"I found him in the forest, just shy of the throes of death" she responds, tersely, in way of explanation - still turned stubbornly away from you. Today, she isn't sporting her usual high collar and you can clearly see the array of densely packed freckles that span her neck and shoulders. 

"And so you're what, nursing him back to health? That seems like an exercise in futility"

You're right, of course. A frail, old thing - he had looked completely beyond help (medicinal or otherwise), even through the warped layers of glass. 

"So says the one who wastes their time gazing into crystal balls," - sensing that she isn't quite finished, you don't bother to object to this sweeping generalisation - “I'm a doctor, it's what we _ do _ and I've heard just about enough from you about my so called 'bedside manner'--" 

The snark in her tone is unmitigated, but it loses all of its sting when she rises to her full height, and whirls around to face you, faltering mid sentence. 

Today, you had chosen to forgo your usual magician's attire in favour of one of the Countess' magnanimous gifts; a lavish ensemble of silk and muslin that you certainly would not have been able to afford otherwise. Clearly, this takes Moira (so used to seeing you in what she frequently dubbed 'commoners rags') by surprise.

She's not wearing her eyepatch and you catch a glimpse of the crimson, unnatural glare of her impaired eye, only partially hidden by her shaggy mop of curls. 

Now that you're face to face, the wistful pang from yesterday rears its head again and a memory struggles its way to the surface; snapshots of tender glances, clumsy - _ burnt _ \- breakfasts and the running of your fingers through silky, russet locs. 

You push it away with some difficulty, already feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. 

"I wouldn't peg you as the good Samaritan type" 

_ That _ makes her scowl, but her cheeks flush a pretty pink as she stoops to pick up the basket, tossing the pair of shears in absently. 

The motion draws your gaze to the - _ bloodied _ \- bandages wound tightly around her wrist, exposed now that her sleeve had ridden up and you frown, trying desperately to recall if those had been there on the night that she had broken into the store.

She catches you looking and promptly turns towards the cottage, choosing not to deign you with much more than a <strike>curt</strike> _dismissive_ "a small loss" before she disappears inside. 

You, of course, follow.

Its interior is… homelier than you were expecting, despite its relative dilapidation; the credenza is littered with terrariums brimming with (some, admittedly, wilted) plants, a soft rug lines the floor and, curiously, her old mask hangs at an angle above the door, just high enough to be a comfortable height for Moira to reach.

Deftly toeing off your shoes lest you track in any unseemly mud, you make to follow her further inside when you hear a raspy rattle which quickly descends into a phlegmy coughing fit as you turn towards the open bedroom door. 

You stall, briefly, at the doorway, back leant against the niche where soft mahogany meets metal jambs as you observe the perfect stranger, wrapped up in once-vibrant quilts and, thankfully, still breathing.

He's older than you'd first assumed, paler too, but, beneath the pain and queasy inertia of his muddled mind, you can sense his will struggling to the surface.

_ Hope_. 

*

The kitchen, set aglow by soft candlelight, soon draws you in to bask in its convivial atmosphere and you leave the man to rest, the fragrance of the tea upon its stove irresistible.

"I suppose he's why you've been gallivanting around town in those dreadful old clothes of yours?" you ask once you enter, just barely resisting the urge to make a quip about domestication as you watch her pour you a cup with careful precision, a sliver of tongue ever so slightly poking out. She only hums her assent in response and you settle into the seat across from her at the quaint table. 

When you finally take a sip from the plain yet delightfully splendid (ceramic, sans handle & black all over bar the stripe of gold which spans its rim) cup, you're enamoured to find that it's velvety bouquet is very un-Moira - although, if prodded, she'd probably insist that it was the first type she'd found.

She remembered how you liked it. 

"You do know that you're currently wanted on suspicion of murder, right?" 

At that, she let's out a harsh bark of laughter that dies down as quickly as it had appeared, its timbre lacking any form of humour. 

"There's always work to be done" she shrugs, putting on an air of nonchalance as her index traces the rim of her cup - you don't buy it. 

Clearly, she doesn't want to talk about the death warrant currently hanging over her head - or at least, not quite yet - so you indulge her, just this once. 

Content with silence, you instead let your eyes roam over the knick knacks which line the shelves in place of spices.

They're mostly books - of the heavy looking medical tome variety - but here or there lays a propped open journal, pages crammed with Moira's, typical, unintelligible chicken scratch and all sorts of medical apparatus lays scattered around the room, intermingled with utensils and familiar marketstuffs, pickled vegetables and the like - in the sink, a steaming poultice wrapped in wet cloth drips steadily into the bowl below. 

Before long, a loud clatter (the sound of Moira setting her cup indelicately back on its saucer) draws your gaze back to her and you can't help but raise an eyebrow inquisitively when you note that the cup is upended upon the plate, letting what little remains of the liquid drain away. 

She turns the cup, slowly, thrice around and looks up at you, pointedly - a challenge, or an invitation?

Knowing Moira, you take it to be a little bit of both and pull the saucer towards you. 

"Presumptuous, aren't we?" 

You ignore her attempt at maintaining her dignity (as she would call it) and focus instead on studying the settled array of leaves, conscious of the fact that a while had passed since you'd last read any.

You can _ feel _her growing more and more restless the longer that you take, so it comes as no surprise when she utters a “well?” in almost desperate anticipation, mismatched eyes flitting from your hands to you and back again. 

Turning your head this way and that, you spare the loose leaves one last glance before you straighten up on your stool.

“A noose”

The kitchen falls silent for almost long enough to make you squirm before she breaks it with a sardonic “_grand_”, jostling the table as she suddenly rises and begins putting away the tea-ware, desperate for something to do, her hands trembling ever so slightly.

You stop her before she gets very far, willing her back into her seat at the sight of her downtrodden, near-pallid expression lest she keel over.

“For all you know, it could mean the end to your exile”

Wishful thinking, you know, but she appreciates the attempt all the same and lets you comfort her, leaning into your touch as you lay your hand on her cheek and brush aside her curls with your thumb, exposing her near-claret rimmed eye so that you’re gazing levelly at her, portraying your sincerity.

You stay like this until the colour returns to her cheeks, perhaps even to the point of indecency when your thumb trails down to rest just below the plump bow of her upper lip and her eyes, now glinting ever so slightly, break the contact of your own to fall to your lips.

She leans in and you let her, all too caught up in the angular beauty of her face and the familiarity that you feel as she nears to consider the repercussions… At least until a pained groan snaps you both out of it. 

You take the fact that the man in her bed had chosen that very moment to awaken as a sign, and slip out of the cottage whilst she's busy tending to him, fingers ghosting your lips where hers would have touched well into the journey back through the forest.


	3. Amas Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You make a pertinent discovery.

_ There's no such thing as a coincidence. _

Previously buried in the depths of your frayed memory, the phrase resurfaces as you dig through your latest discovery, a nondescript box that had no doubt belonged to your, as ever, wayfaring Mistress.

Time had worn away the face that had uttered it, and the context in which it had been said, but it remains nonetheless pertinent as you lift the rectangular lid and blow away the years of dust that had accumulated - not dissimilar to a spider's web - over its contents, sneezing gently at the mites which swirl up into the air. 

Your suspicions are further confirmed when you set your eyes upon its lacquered interior - not only does the magick which coils protectively around the cherry wood carry Angela's signature aura, it _ smells _like her too, as if infused with her scent. 

Her possessions offer no resistance as you root through the box, fingers mingling with personal trinkets, souvenirs from far off lands and other oddities.

You wonder what it's doing here as you reach for the beautiful technicolour scarf you'd only seen in pictures (which were increasingly few and far between), throwing a cursory glance around the library lest someone should suddenly materialise and catch you in the act before you lift the material to your nose and _ inhale _ the heady mix of her fragrance. 

Hints of star anise, vanilla, citrus and - inexplicably - something akin to the first drop of rain before a downpour flood your senses and you find yourself wishing that you were with your mentor, traipsing across a far off oasis with sand stretching out as far as the eye can see just for the sake of it or, better yet, _ saving _ people - anything to distract you from this arduous witch hunt. 

Wrapping the scarf around your shoulders, you take a moment to let it sink in and pretend as if you're in her arms (the warmth it evokes reminiscent of the embraces you'd oft shared upon your infrequent reunions) before you return to the task at hand, fully expecting to be immersed in yet more nostalgia as your hand brushes against a finely bound journal that you can practically feel calling out to you, the near-hypnotic swirls of its worn cover seemingly shifting with each blink. 

A frown finds its way to your face as its heft passes between your palms, deepens when you note that it yields to your prying with no effort at all on your part despite the protective sigils that ward against such a thing and finally, your expression shifts into a look of complete confusion when you note the markings in question are drawn in your hand.

In fact, as you flip through its pages, it becomes evident that the whole thing has seemingly been written by you, though you have no recollection of the grimoire turned diary.

Despite how tempting it seems to dive in and gleen as much of your past from it as you can, a nagging hesitation stills your movements, aware that its entries may reveal no more to you than Angela's own attempts to prompt your memory, leaving you in a migraine induced daze of fragments just out of reach, echoes of things perhaps best left in the past. 

You've all about resigned yourself to leaving the book where it is for the time being when a pressed azalea slips out from between the vellum, leaving you with little choice but to re-affix it amongst the others of its type which span the following pages, all varying in colour, species and size.

Before long, you've reached the back of the book where no more than five pages remain, all but one of which is torn through by the violent, nonsensical swipes of a quill.

Black ink stains each one of these pages in saturated blots, diluted in some places by what you can only assume were once tears - a stark contrast to the flowers which had preceded them.

Your curiosity finally gets the better of you when you reach the final page, the only that is unmarred and is composed solely of shaky text.

"A_mas Veritas_" you whisper aloud to yourself, scoffing slightly at the, evidentially, unchecked emotion that your younger self had allowed to seep into a simple love spell.

Only, it isn't simple - or even really a love spell. 

The more that you read, the more your brow furrows - perplexed at the impossible criteria that your (for indeed it could have been written for no one else but yourself) 'true love' would have to fulfill in order to win your heart as you skim the text; height near beyond measure, cold as ice to the touch, wit enough to rival the hermetic scholars at the (now bygone) institution of the Towers of Lazaret, _ one blue eye and one red… _

You drop the book as if scalded, rising from your chair with just enough urgency to send it sprawling and yet, the vision of _ her _ face persists even as you clamp your eyes shut, and you're forced to acknowledge that she fits all the criteria. 

You've only ever heard rumours of spells like these - seemingly just a hopeless romantic's attempt at wish fulfillment but, in truth, insurance against a broken heart, almost exclusively cast by spurned lovers.

The more 'impossible' the criteria, the less likely the chance of heartbreak… unless, of course, fate has any say in matters. 

But, _ Moira _ \- of all people? 

Yes, there's a certain dynamic between you two and, yes you find her passion for knowledge remarkable (if not a little unethical) and _ yes _ your heart gets all fluttery when she calls you _ a ghrá _ . But… _ Moira? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is inspired by the spell of the same name from the movie Practical Magic starring Sandra Bullock & Nicole Kidman :)

**Author's Note:**

> There may be a few formatting issues - if you spot any, let me know.


End file.
